


Eyes; of Storms and Needles

by sallysorrell



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cardassian Anatomy, Garak is a spy - a tailor - and most importantly A Lizard Alien, M/M, Slow Burn, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: Bashir finds himself leading a reconnaissance mission in the Gamma Quadrant.  He also finds he and Garak have a long list of things in common.  First on it is 'fantasies.'Fits into the canon between season three's "Second Skin" and "Civil Defense."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChocolateOrchid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateOrchid/gifts).



“Dax to _Rio Grande_.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant," returned Commander Sisko.

Dax looked at the display console again, and waited on a nod of agreement from O’Brien before continuing.

“The coordinates of Planet B are changing, Benjamin.  Almost twenty degrees since our survey.” 

“This morning’s survey?”

At 0700, most of the senior staff found themselves assigned to one of the runabouts, for the most extensive survey of the Gamma Quadrant yet undertaken.  Everything was new and appealing, and each of the officers had, in a few short hours, adopted all sorts of pet theories and preferred planets.  Dax had taken a liking to a small M-Class Planet which glowed purple.  O’Brien joined her on the _Mekong_ to study it further, intrigued by the complete lack of radio frequency transmissions.  And now, as if the little planet thrived on attention, it was _moving_. 

“Affirmative.”

“Can you tell what’s causing it?  Chief?”

“I can’t tell much of anything, Commander.  Our probe hasn’t picked up a single radio transmission.  I’ve tried every frequency in our range.”

“So it’s possible that there _is_ communication, but we can’t understand it?”

“That could be, Commander.  But there’s no indication they know we’re above them either.  It’s not just the lack of radio, Sir; I’m not reading any power transfers of any kind.  That seems a little odd for a planet with intelligent lifeforms.”

“And they’re humanoid,” Doctor Bashir chimed in, from his console on the _Rio Grande_.  Commander Sisko acknowledged this with a thoughtful hum.

“It’s your call, _Mekong_ ,” he said, after a moment of thought. “We can continue our count without you.  We’ll rendezvous back at the wormhole.”

“Wait a second, Commander,” O’Brien said, “I’m reading another ship through the planet’s atmosphere.”

“Coming or going, Chief?”

“How could it be going?” Bashir mumbled to himself. “I wouldn’t expect a planet without _radio communication_ to have mastered space travel.”

This time, O’Brien delighted in tapping his communicator.

“They’re definitely going, Julian.”

Sisko smiled back at him, only turning away when the doctor noticed.

“Track them, Chief.”

O’Brien and Dax watched the pulsing light as it slid across the display.  

“It’s due to intercept with the next planet in the system,” Dax said.

“Scan it,” Sisko said, and O’Brien obliged immediately.

“I’d need more time to look, Sir,” O’Brien added, “but the cargo bay seems to be carrying elements from Planet B.  There’s no way they built the ship there.” 

“What are you saying?”

“Well, B has no way of detecting space shuttles, let alone building them.  I’d say they don’t know what’s hit them."

Sisko folded his hands while he thought. 

“Were these elements taken by force?”

“It’s possible.”

“It’s _likely_ ,” Dax added, watching the foreign shuttle enter orbit around its own home planet.

“Hmm,” Sisko said again.  Part of him wished Kira was piloting the runabout behind him, but she was left in charge of the station.  He knew she would suggest immediate involvement and fair results, which she believed in, and found a charming opposite to his position:  “I think this is a bit beyond our jurisdiction.”

“We don’t know enough about them,” Dax spoke slowly, trying to decide whether or not she _wanted_ to know more.  Perhaps her little lavender pet had faults of its own.

“Are they being mistreated, though?” Bashir suggested.  “Can we determine what kind of force is being used here?”

Sisko conceded that this was a valid concern; he felt the Prime Directive could be easily stretched and suspended in cases where intelligent lifeforms were suffering at the hands of others.  He asked what more they needed to learn before continuing.  Bashir ran one hand timidly back through his hair, and joined the others on the _Mekong_ to utilize the data they had gathered on the inhabitants of Planet B.  Dax was happy to trade him places, especially when Sisko began talking about the trip home to sort through their findings.

Both runabouts were outfitted for a long journey -  packed with programs to replicate rations, padded with extra bunks and blankets - but they were hardly equipped for reconnaissance, or worse, any violent engagements.  Most of the phaser power had been offloaded to the library computer system, in anticipation of the vast survey they were conducting.  So when the _Rio Grande_ departed, it was to prepare them all for a different kind of mission.

“Any last requests, _Mekong_?” Sisko keyed in coordinates for their own return to the wormhole.

Bashir was a little more than halfway through the visual inventory Dax and O’Brien had collected on ‘their’ little planet.  He always fancied himself to be good at speculation, at formulating a final answer based on little more than impersonal clues.  With his new knowledge of the planet’s atmospheric conditions and fauna, he drew a hopeful picture of its inhabitants.  And, from that, the whole of their reconnaissance mission.

“Yes, Sir.  Do you think you could bring me Mister Garak?  I-If it isn’t too much trouble--”

***

Kira looked at the communication screen in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Commander, you want me clear _Garak_ for transport?  Even if I _did_ trust him, there’s so many inconsistencies in his record, getting him onto a Federation ship in Bajoran space?  That would take the provisional government _years_.”

“Nevermind, Major,” Sisko spoke calmly, “I’ll come aboard and ask him myself.”

The screen went blank.  First, Kira looked back to Dax at the science station for support, then to Odo, who stood on the other side of the operations panel.  His face was less adept at showing his faith, so she relied on asking his opinion.

“Based on the preliminary reports from the runabouts,” he answered, indicating his PADD, “Garak seems to be the best match for a covert operation on the planet’s surface.”

Incredulously, Kira blinked at him.

“ _Covert_ operation?  Odo, you’re a--”

“If the lifeforms share physical similarities with Cardassians,” he almost sounded apologetic, “then I’d need several days’ practice.  There’s no way to tell if that might be too late to help them.”

***

It remained quiet aboard the _Mekong_ for nearly an hour, with Bashir scrolling through the vegetation surveys and O’Brien collecting the first of their probe’s images from the surface.

“This is all down to some fantasy of yours then, eh?”

“I beg your pardon?” Bashir turned from his console, feigning offence, which he thought seemed correct in this case.

“Having the commander bring Garak to work with us.  It’s because you’re set on thinking he’s a spy.”

“Well, he is.  I’m sure of it.”

“ _Julian_ ,” he pleaded. 

“It all makes sense, Chief, if you’ll allow me to explain myself.”

O’Brien didn’t want to agree, so he sighed instead of speaking.  Unfortunately for him, Bashir would have accepted any sound as an invitation to continue.

“Other than the fact he’s most definitely a spy, I think Garak can get us the quickest results.  I looked at the data you and Dax collected, and based on a combination of the climate, atmosphere, and fauna, I'm sure Garak will be able to visit undetected after only minor cosmetic alterations.  Not even surgery.  And all of _that_ is possible from this runabout alone, within a matter of hours.  I sent all of this to Sisko already, as part of an official request.”

“Huh,” the explanation had only served to confuse O’Brien further. “What about the constable?”

Bashir dropped his hopeful expression, staring after it as it fell.  The thought had not even crossed his mind.  Unlike Bashir in these situations, O’Brien was able to collect all these nonverbal admissions.  And this time, he thrived on them.

“I’d expect Odo would get really annoyed at the possible exploitation of an entire _planet_ of intelligent life.  Wouldn’t you think so?”

“I would,” Bashir said slowly, constructing his next point while he spoke.  “Too annoyed.  I thought Garak would be a more… subtle choice.”

O’Brien turned back to his console.

“I can’t argue with that,” he said.

“Anyway, Garak seems very fond of me.  I thought he’d be more willing to help.”

“Can’t argue with that either.  Or understand it.”

“What was that, Chief?”

“Nothing…” he was so relieved by the new blinking light on his console that he almost drew a cross over his chest, “The _Rio Grande_ is in range.”

Bashir’s communicator chirped.

“Doctor Bashir,” Sisko’s voice began, “We’ve got your partner here.  He’s ready to beam over.”

“Energizing,” O’Brien said, as Bashir rushed to the transporter pad to exchange greetings.

“Doctor!” Garak spoke softly, but enthusiastically.  “The commander told me as much as he could, I suppose.  What is it you need my help with, so far from the station?”

“Chief,” Sisko cut in, over the communicator, “Keep an eye on things, and let us know what you find.  Dax is ready to go over your reports as soon as they reach the station on subspace.  Sisko out.”

O’Brien could imagine Commander Sisko smirking as he turned his craft around and departed.  

Garak glanced between them and tried to look surprised.

“Nothing complicated,” Bashir said, collecting the Cardassian’s attention.  

“Sisko said you asked for me specifically, or I wouldn’t’ve bothered with following him.  I assume that’s true?”

Bashir led Garak to the science station, where a slideshow from the probe was playing.  He felt vindicated, once an image of the planet’s primary lifeforms surfaced.  

The alterations would be even less dramatic than he had guessed.  Garak’s eyes flickered, opening and shutting again quickly, as he considered the picture.  While it was dimly lit, discerning the figure’s features was simple.  Humanoid, wide and glowing eyes, chalky grey skin, little patches of iridescent purple highlighting the bone structure of the face.

“A bit of reconnaissance,” Bashir explained, even though Garak could already guess as much.

“Now I’ll admit the resemblance, but I think the Federation would’ve preferred someone with slightly more experience in that field…”

“ _Save it_.”

He left Garak to study the images, and went to prepare a series of topical solutions from the runabout’s medical kit.  When Garak turned to address him again, he was busy dyeing a set of contact lenses.

“Through necessity,” Garak began, “I’ve become accustomed to working with limited information.  Although I will need slightly more than this image.  Is there a role or name I’m assuming?  A gender?  An age?”

“That one,” Bashir tossed his hand vaguely toward the science station.  “We don’t know anything about them because they don’t even use radio communication.  All we want to find out is whether or not they’re being manipulated or mistreated by their neighbors.  That planet, there.”

He nodded his head to one side of the front window.  O’Brien joined in.

“So far, we’ve noticed the planet’s coordinates drifting, and we’ve counted two shuttles exiting the atmosphere.  But we don’t know why, and there’s no way anyone on the surface can tell us.”

Garak argued that he had only brought along a small sewing kit, equipped for the most minor of alterations, which Bashir immediately critiqued - the shears were certainly too sharp, and the pins were all probably capped with listening devices.  Garak laughed at that, and explained that the pins never left the unfinished garments in his shop, and were often in his mouth while he worked.  If these _were_ listening, it was not to anything important.

“However,” Garak continued, as Bashir shepherded him into a chair and set to work on painting purple over his ridges, “I’ll do my best, Doctor, just for you.”

Bashir held his chin in one hand, and continued his outlines with the other.  He said he was counting on nothing less.

“I’m working on somewhere safe to put you down,” O’Brien explained.  He thought speaking might make him feel less uncomfortable, but he decided that turning and staring only at his display screens was the best remedy.  He listed several possibilities within walking distance of the shuttle landing sites.  The final suggestion caused Garak to perk up, even swatting away Bashir’s airbrush.  

“A marketplace, you said?”


	2. Chapter 2

Garak found the sensation of transporting pleasant.  It was warm, he thought, but also delightfully spiteful.  Not only would he go on living, he would be broken apart completely, and then he would live some more.  

As he considered this, he flattened one hand over the subdermal emitter he had been equipped with before landing.  Bashir had been vaguely apologetic about installing it, trying not to bring up Garak’s previous implant, while O’Brien insisted it was the safest and most effective option for keeping an eye on him.  Garak agreed with him on both counts, and assured Bashir he could tolerate a momentary injection to further their work, and to keep Bashir quiet.  The man never had much success in keeping secrets, Garak thought.  

Despite researching the marketplace as a landing site, Garak found himself in an empty field which faced it, instead.  He hoped approaching from here would not be suspicious, as he did not see a marked path to the vendors’ area.  He scanned what he could see of the tables, the products, and the people.  Listening to transactions, he knew, would be beneficial.  Anything to give his embedded translator a head-start.  

The first table he approached was staffed by three lifeforms, all differently dressed.  One, he noted, was almost completely wrapped in fabric, so that not even the purple lines on their face were visible.  Just the eyes, wide and gentle.  He followed their gaze down to the table, afraid it may be considered rude to continue staring forward without speaking.

Of course, he chose these vendors not for their own appearances, but for the fact their table displayed bolts of fabric.  This was something he could fake conversation about for a long time.  Years, in fact.

The entire time he walked, he heard jumbled words from the translator.  He gauged the language to be deceptively simple, as the sentences arrived in his head in an oddly formal order.  Some were translated to English, the universal stopgap, but other concepts met his ear in Cardassian.  He grinned, and expressed his interest in a fold of sage-colored velvet.

“I thought you would say this,” one of the staff explained, “as I could swear your clothes were professionally made.  An interesting appearance.”

“Well,” Garak said, modestly, “I always aim to be unique.”

“You made this?” the staff asked.

“Yes.”

“We have nothing this color,” the middle vendor reached for Garak’s tunic and tugged it without any preface or apology.  He resisted the urge to step back, and suddenly felt perfectly justified in grabbing the swatch he wanted.

“Many of my best acquisitions are made by traveling.  Now, the requirement,” he shook his head at the translator’s misappropriation of the Cardassian term for ‘cost,' “for this one, please?”

“You are traveling, even now?” asked the first.  “Will you require a place to stay?”

Garak noted two things: that the word ‘requirement’ was a lucky match - he would not need to try stumbling back and forth between English for a reliable translation - and that the figure completely covered in fabric did not speak.  Like a good undercover operative, or so he guessed, he would confine these considerations to his own thoughts unless they became valuable later.

“That would be ideal,” Garak concluded. “A place to stay, and this bolt to take with me.  The requirement, please?”

It was agreed that Garak could take his choice of four bolts of fabric, including the sage one, if he would return with finished pieces, and a verbal tour of how each was made.  Without even being provided a timeframe, Garak agreed.  

As he collected the bolts under his arm, Garak could feel the ground trembling beneath him.  Seismic activity.  He studied the reactions of the vendors, who all glanced down for a prescribed period of time.  Such movements must have been common.

Garak tried to treat this like he did the buzzing of an implant.  He reached for his forehead first, out of habit, before recalling the communicator was installed in his chest, and was the only thing functioning.  

“If you are well,” the middle vendor said, until Garak dropped his hand, “we can show you to the proprietor.  It shouldn’t take many words at all to arrange.”

***

Garak was assigned a small, damp room on the ground floor of the supposed hotel.  The proprietor was pleased to offer him a meal in the community dining room, which he shared with three other occupants.  It was made clear upon their introduction that the proprietor loved absorbing stories from travelers.  Garak’s translator made it sound like this was the only reason this person had gone into the hospitality business.  No mentions of money were ever made.

He was presented with a bowl of cold broth and noodles.  After a remark was made about the split in the center of his tongue, he stopped trying to eat and pushed the bowl away.

“You are something odd,” observed the proprietor.

“Call me whatever you like.”

“Odd,” they repeated.

“I was injured,” Garak said.  He always looked forward to developing a backstory for himself, but only out of necessity.  Stories made to satisfy one’s own fantasies were too obvious, too flimsy, and completely inappropriate for excursions like this.  He was working on teaching this lesson to Doctor Bashir.   

“I noticed a movement in the caves," he continued, "and when I went in to look closer, I was cut.”

“The shifts,” declared the proprietor.  One of the guests, wearing a full wrap like the one Garak had seen earlier, reached across the table to tug the proprietor’s sleeve.  They continued, “Of course, many people travel to see them, but they all think they’re attending a show.  A story.”

“And what do you think?” Garak asked.

“Me?  I have seen the story _teller_ , covered in strange cuts like yours all along the skin, and happy to show them off to anyone.  The only requirement is a good meal.”

“I’m happy to volunteer mine,” Garak said, tapping two fingers on the rim of the bowl in front of him.  The proprietor accepted it and rushed from the room.  He enjoyed the immediacy of this culture; he did not expect to stay long at all.

***

“None of these reports are very helpful,” Dax announced.  She was scrolling through the transcripts that had arrived from Garak’s communicator while Major Kira read over her shoulder.

“Do these people not even have names?” Kira asked, “I haven’t seen a single one identifying themselves, beyond a job title here and there.”

Across from them, Odo leaned on console railing.

“That doesn’t mean they can’t be classified as intelligent lifeforms,” he said.  “I wouldn’t use my name if this culture didn’t require it.”

Kira shrugged, as if weighing this comment on her shoulders.

“I just meant it seemed a little suspicious, that’s all.  Like we’re not getting everything.”

“You mean,” Odo observed, “you don’t trust Garak.”

“I shouldn’t be the only one.”

“It’s all been recorded directly from his communicator,” Dax reminded them, then tried to lighten the mood.  “Next we’ll get reports from Julian and Chief O’Brien.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Kira sounded amused, “O’Brien’s there chaperoning them.  I can’t wait for his account of this whole thing, however it turns out.”

“He’s got a gift for sarcasm,” Dax added, smiling.

***

“Yeah,” O’Brien called back to Bashir, “And how’s that working out for you?”

Bashir had tried to help at the transporter controls, after they heard Garak call for an emergency transport.  He had only been alone on the planet for several minutes.

After pressing what was decidedly the wrong button - based on some shouting from O’Brien - Bashir said he would work on preparing his casualty kit, instead.

“I’ve got him,” O’Brien said. “Remind him to hold still next time, would you?”

As soon as his body was done rematerializing, Garak dusted his sleeves.  He was pleased to see the doctor hovering over him, looking concerned and overwhelmed, trying to eliminate any unpleasant possibilities.  So far, all he had seen was Garak’s face, which was now more red than purple or grey.

“The blood is not my own, Doctor,” Garak assured him, immediately.  This was met with a relieved sigh.

“But you did press the emergency signal?”

“Yes,” Garak pushed his arms back, folding himself into a sitting position, “but that didn’t seem to mean anything to you; I had to deal with that dreadful business myself.”

O’Brien turned to look at the transporter pad, incredulous and nearly fed up with both of the men on it.

“What are you talking about?  I locked onto your signal in less than three seconds, this time.  That’s twice as fast as you beamed down, you remember?”

“Three seconds?  Oh, dear.”

Bashir wasn’t sure whether or not he was being addressed, but he reached forward just in case, setting his hand cautiously on the cold tile between them.

“I would’ve said I waited at least an hour; a minute for the transport, and then another fifty-nine resigning myself to conducting the surgery alone.”

Bashir gaped at him.

“You did _what_?”

Garak held up one finger, to stop his friend from speculating.

“It was a simple alteration,” he dropped his hand. “It would seem my introduction was made into a bit of a mess by the translator.  I was trying to explain that I could _get_ a doctor.  I should’ve expected any potentially possessive words to be taken that way.  But, of course, I am hardly a linguist.”

“Hardly,” Bashir muttered.  “Or a surgeon.”

“You always look so surprised,” Garak said, fondly.  “How many times must I remind you that any skills worth having, any trades worth learning, should be entirely transferable?”

“At least once more,” Bashir grinned, and set to work, first wetting a cloth from his medical kit and then dabbing away the flecks of blood from Garak’s face.  “And exactly what skills _were_ you able to transfer, Garak?”

“I was introduced to someone who, I believe, has seen the shuttles.  Or, at least, experienced the interference from their landings.  I offered to get a doctor - anything to stay on good terms with my landlord, as I haven’t yet worked out the currency I need to pay them with.  It’s almost embarrassing, really, just how out of my depth I am.”

“Sure,” hummed Bashir.

Garak tilted his head and gave a satisfied smile.

“It’s all there in the transcripts.”

Bashir reminded him that only eight minutes of transcript was currently available, and most of it was Garak’s inspection of the marketplace.  Garak was happy to summarize. 

“I do hope none of this disappoints you, Doctor.  The storyteller refused to explain the gash in their arm, but I could see it was deep and could assume it was painful.  I said I could get a doctor; I went into my room and tapped the emitter, and waited.  For more than a minute, I’m sure,” he nodded forward at O’Brien, who scoffed but saw no use in arguing. “I reminded myself that waiting on help from humans is, historically, quite worthless, so I gathered my kit and went to do it myself.  Closing the wound was fairly straightforward; it took no time at all.  You finally managed to collect me as I was returning to my own room.”

“You’re sure no one saw the transport?”

“Yes, my dear d--”

“Now don’t try and charm me out of it, Garak.  If any of these are lies--”

“Only, so far, that I would return in the morning with a doctor.”

Bashir rolled his eyes.  O’Brien re-entered the coordinates and cleared them both for transport.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his best efforts, Bashir could not categorize their landing site as a ‘hotel room.’

The light was minimal, reflecting off of a puddle from its source - a gap in the ceiling - to illuminate a negligible expanse of the floor.  A patch of carpet was present in the middle, but only served to highlight the mud surrounding it, and creeping upward through its padding.  There were no windows, and the single door was sealed by a sliding lock.  The best Bashir could call this place was a prison cell.

“The quarters I’ve managed to procure myself,” Garak said, pride singeing the end of his sentence.  “They’re very comfortable, and the only disturbances so far have been the earthquakes.” 

Bashir absorbed all of this intently - the exact brightness Garak defined as ‘comfortable,’ the set of shelves installed in the front wall, covered with the bolts of fabric Garak had apparently bartered for.  Bashir did not ask about anything other than the mission objectives, and allowed some leeway for Garak to enjoy himself in what Bashir was convinced was his element.

“Now,” Garak said, taking a purposeful stride toward the shelves, “one of the genders here presents themselves _exclusively_ in a full-body covering.  I can make something like that easily, and then you’ll be safe to join me.”

He indicated the two widest bolts of fabric, and smoothed the upper one between his fingers. 

“Which do you prefer?”

“Those look like velvet,” Bashir said, frowning, “so I’d have to say ‘neither.’” 

Garak unwound a notched strand of twine from around his wrist, approached the doctor, and motioned for him to sit on the mattress.  It was on the floor near the puddle, free of a support frame and of pillows.  An empty bolt seemed to serve as one, propped up on one edge of the mattress, with its former fabric unravelled along the length to act as a blanket.

“I can see this isn’t what you expected from those fantasies of yours.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Garak sat down beside him to soothe him, and gently pressed the twine against Bashir’s chest, mentally counting the notches.

“I only meant that this isn’t something you would’ve dreamed about.  Isn’t that right, Doctor?  Being trapped in a dark room with only a Cardassian for company, and only velvet to wear?  I suppose it could be worse, but dreams never make for a reliable comparison.”

Bashir wanted to say something, anything, about how Garak continued to intrigue him, about how he looked forward to many more years of getting to know him.  But he was silent, nodding along with Garak as they both made note of the notches.  When Garak finished, he moved the twine to Bashir’s arm, first reaching to unfold it, then holding his hand steady.  For a moment, they caught each other’s gaze.

Garak smiled as he returned his attention to his work.  Bashir took a deep breath to calm himself, though he wasn’t sure what made him feel unsteady in the first place.  He took another, to satisfy the uncertainty.

“I think you’ll prove very helpful, Doctor,” Garak said, slipping the twine down Bashir’s side, “and from what I’ve seen, the people who present this way never speak nor uncover themselves.  An ideal foray into undercover work, and a better starting point for our fantasy."

Sometimes, Bashir suspected Garak spoke with him in English on purpose, so he could later claim not to have noticed any uncomfortable phrasing.  Garak enjoyed this game most when Bashir made no mention of it, shaking his head to clear his thoughts before replying.  Essentially, they were both holding their cards against their chests, despite the fact the rest of the deck was overturned on the table between them.  Stubbornness was usually sufficient to keep them from glancing down, but sometimes attraction wore this out.

“And how many, er, presentations of people have you seen, so far?”

“That’s hardly relevant, but I’ve noticed four among adults.  The living arrangements are in every way arbitrary, both in number and presentation of participants.”

“So… if I go around with you looking like this… that won’t raise any suspicions?”

“No more than I’ve raised already, but, as you know, it’s always healthy to have _some_ suspicions.  Ah,” Garak said, pressing the twine into Bashir’s hand and kneeling before him, “now the inseam, Doctor, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Bashir stood, held the twine as Garak directed him, and said nothing.  When this was finished, Garak stood and collected it, winding it up again around his wrist.

“I don’t suppose this daylight is too bright for you to sleep through?” Garak indicated the glow, as it resonated from the puddle. “I can work almost silently by hand.”

“What about _our_ patient?”

“I gave exactly the same advice: sleep.  Unless you wanted to try transferring some of your surgical skills to this backstitch, Doctor?”

After quietly conceding - admitting he hadn’t used a needle since the single Academy exam which required it - Bashir settled down on the mattress, tugging the fabric over himself and stretching his arms beneath the empty bolt of a pillow.

Garak promised to wake him as unobtrusively as possible - a soft grip on his shoulder - and Bashir felt somewhat ridiculous for saying he was ‘looking forward to it.’  Then, to the sound of Garak’s intermittent giggling, Bashir forced himself to fall asleep.  He couldn’t remember if this was a skill he adopted as an officer, or one he learned much earlier.

***

Sisko was surprised to find his remaining officers still at their Ops posts when he stepped out of his office and prepared to signal the night shift.

“I was just going, Commander,” Odo explained.  He wished Kira and Dax a pleasant evening of sorting through the logs, and asked them to come and get him from his quarters if he was needed.  Kira nodded at this, while Dax tended to a blinking button on her console.  

“Benjamin,” Dax said, “we’re just getting in O’Brien’s commentary, if you wanted to listen with us.”

“This one’s titled ‘A List of Regrets,’” Kira read.

Sisko politely declined, and asked to hear the highlights when he returned to work the next morning.

“Maybe I’ll replicate some popcorn,” he said.

***

Garak’s hand was cold over Bashir’s shoulder, even after slithering beneath the blanket.

“It had to be velvet, I’m afraid,” the words were hummed into his ear, in case he was still sleeping, “but of course you can leave your uniform on underneath.”

“Morning,” Bashir said, instead.

“A good one, now,” Garak offered, patting Bashir’s shoulder twice before removing his hand.  “You and I are going to finish this whole thing up today, if all goes well.”

“Really?  You’ll have to catch me up; I didn’t exactly get through all twelve hours of your transcripts before you called for help.”

Garak returned to the corner where he had been working, collecting his finished piece from its place on the floor.  

“The injury is clearly the result of interference from a cloaked shuttle.  Today, we’ll have the chance to speak to the one person who has seen, or at least _felt_ , them landing.”

“You worked all of that out in how long, local time?”

Garak shrugged, dismissing it as less than a day.

“Now, your arms please, Doctor.”

Bashir held both arms out and allowed Garak to drape the velvet over them.  When he was satisfied with the shape this created, he worked the fabric into a knot behind Bashir’s back.

“I knew this color would be striking on you,” Garak said.  Bashir was happy to accept whichever half of this compliment was intended for him.  “It took me the better part of yesterday morning to trade my way to this exact shade.  I could’ve gone away with whatever I wanted in grey or beige, but this?  This took some convincing.”

“Well,” Bashir began, “it seems you’ve got many talents.”

“My dear Doctor, you flatter me.”

Bashir was aware, now, of just how close they were standing, forced together atop the tiny patch of carpet.  Until now, Garak had been holding him steady, with whichever hand was free.  He had to remind himself to lean forward, out of fear of stumbling backward otherwise.  Garak’s eyes moved in closer, closer...

Suddenly, Garak cupped Bashir’s chin in his hand, and tugged the velvet up to the top of the Federation-issue rollneck.  More than enough to ruin the moment, Bashir thought.

Garak paused, and warned Bashir before introducing the fabric to his skin.  With the hood properly formed, he removed his hand.

“Whenever you’re comfortable,” he said, already moving toward the door, “you’ll need to cover your mouth, as well.”

Bashir swallowed hard before doing so.

“Good,” Garak praised.  “Now, you must remember not to speak.  Help all you like, but whatever you wish to say, you must convey to me.  It’s quite fortunate that human expressions are easier to read than my native nonverbal language is.”

Even if he felt like breaking the new rule and using his voice, Bashir would have had a hard time agreeing with that statement.  He didn’t think he could go more than a minute trying to understand just someone’s eyes, unless they were in profound pain.  Perhaps that would be the case, and he wouldn’t need to rely on blinking helplessly at Garak to get him home safely.

But Garak read this, too, quickly proving his point and managing to look smug about it.

“You and I would’ve had similar troubles growing up on my homeworld, Doctor.  How desperately we crave conversation.”

Bashir nodded in acceptance, on his way to understanding.

Garak escorted him through a corridor to what he described as the lobby, a room slightly larger than but. just as damp as their private quarters.  He had, apparently, arranged to meet the injured lifeform here.  Bashir felt like he was intentionally left a few pages behind in Garak’s own spy story, and was now unable to protest.

“My doctor,” Garak made his introduction to the other lifeform.  Bashir bowed politely, confident his blushing was visible even through the velvet.

“For the injury?” led the storyteller, “At once, please.”

They set their injured arm down on the table, and grabbed Bashir’s wrist in order to set him to work more quickly.

Bashir peeled a tacky strip of canvas free of the skin, then ran his thumb gently over the indentations of the sutures.  The thread Garak had used was thin, attentively chosen to match the lavender skin tone.  The holes were small and precise.  He saw no need to remove the stitches, as they showed no signs of infection.  

Was this a message that required him to narrow his eyes, or to widen them?  When he glanced at Garak, he still hadn’t decided, and just blinked.

“You aren’t in pain any longer, are you?” Garak asked.  Bashir closed his eyes, relieved, then returned his attention to the stitches.

“I am not.”  They looked introspective for a moment, then continued, “When the proprietor brought the meal to me, it was said you were injured in a similar way.  Did you heal yourself, then, or are you still suffering?”

“The good doctor was available to assist me,” Garak tried to dismiss any further questions with a wave of his hand, but this was interpreted as completely the opposite.  He had been having a hard enough time avoiding pronouns and substituting both these and proper names for occupations, as the concepts were quite different in other cultures he was familiar with.  

“I have never heard of injuries beyond the skin, you see.  I was told the interference was only superficial.”

The injured lifeform reached for Garak’s face, rolling down his bottom lip and leaning in for an inspection.  Garak gave up and flicked out his tongue.

Once the lifeform was satisfied and Bashir was even further confused, Garak stepped back and resumed speaking.

“I need to know more about the interference you spoke of,” Garak said.

“Then you have not suffered it, just as I thought.  I will not speak of it here.”

This time, it was Garak who looked to Bashir for reassurance.

“We’re here to help you,” his voice was calm.  Almost believable, Bashir thought.  Or maybe it always sounded that way to him.  In any case, he was having difficulty listening without the option of replying.  

“I only tell stories,” the figure said, “that’s all.”

“Of course you do,” said Garak.  “And we were only hoping to hear one.  Perhaps another time.”

Garak led Bashir back to the guestroom.  Both were so desperate that they began speaking simultaneously, but Garak allowed Bashir to go ahead on his own.  Instead, he pulled Bashir close and, in one swift movement, spun the cloak free of Bashir’s shoulders and over his own.

“I… I didn’t know that you had a bifid tongue,” Bashir managed to collect the thought only as Garak stepped away from him and went to sit on the bed.  “Was it really from an injury?”

“Is that all you were thinking about?” Garak sounded pleased with this, for reasons Bashir chose not to pursue.

“No more than you were thinking of ripping that robe off of me, surely.”

Garak made an amused but dismissive clicking noise.

“I think you'll agree that lobby is colder than the station, and velvet is a wonderful fabric for heat retention.  You’ve already expressed your dislike of it, and there’s no reason for both of us to be uncomfortable, especially when neither of us needs to be.”

He leaned forward on the bed, satisfied with his preheated cloak, and gestured for the doctor to sit beside him.  Cautiously, Bashir did so.

“As for our tongues -” he paused, and watched Bashir’s face as it pleaded for different phrasing, “ _Cardassian_ tongues, Doctor - it’s an outdated adaptation, I’ll admit.  Some have outgrown it altogether, and others have it mended when their molars are removed.  It’s never bothered me, so I haven’t given it much thought.  Now,” he reached for Bashir’s shoulder and squeezed it firmly, “the real reason I asked you to accompany me...”

Bashir couldn’t believe that he found this surprising.  

“You mean it wasn’t just to praise your surgical skills?”

Garak continued holding his arm, and stared after him with something Bashir wanted to call desperation.  It was not an expression Garak was adept at providing, but Bashir had seen it before, and the lavender highlights on Garak’s face were helpful in defining it. 

“I was hoping to transfer that skill of yours - among others - if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Those stitches won’t get infected, you did a perfectly acceptable job considering the technology.  Now will you let _go_ of my arm?”

Immediately, Garak did so.  He moved his hand, instead, to the chip embedded in his chest.

“They won’t hear for several hours,” he said.  

“Garak, what are you tal--?”

The Cardassian tossed back his head, frustrated.

“Since they won’t hear and you won’t listen: _take it out._ ”

Bashir’s mind was flooded with possible responses, which all seemed convincingly correct.  Most of them ran along the lines of ‘absolutely not’ but, since this was Garak, he decided to abandon his usual conversational strategies and cull something from a spy’s arsenal.  He spoke slowly, sincerely.

“I would need to get supplies from the runabout.”

Again, he felt Garak’s hand over his wrist.  Maybe the silence had taught him to listen, as he instinctively understood this not only as a ‘no,’ but as a list of reasons _why_.  Maybe he would return with sedatives, but if allowed to speak freely, he would also return after telling O’Brien everything he knew.

“I think you’ll find I have a very narrow definition of ‘trust’, Doctor, but a high tolerance for pain.  Whatever supplies you brought with you will be sufficient, I assure you.”

The kit Bashir brought down with them was on the floor near the shelves of fabric.  He had packed the airbrushing kit in case either of them needed to repair or improve their disguises, and only the medicine he knew he could reliably explain to inhabitants of this developing world.  Hyposprays with false needles attached to their tips, rolls of gauze, ancient pain-relief pills ground into powder, and a deplorable pair of trauma shears.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Garak,” he said, to halt these thoughts.

“If you won’t remove it, you must disable it,” Garak replied. “The unique history of our relationship tells me this is something you can manage.  Now, the physician’s approach - seeing the problems and connecting them - that won’t do.  Perhaps if you consider a mere tailor’s approach - envision the goal, become consumed by the beauty of it, and work backward.”

“Garak, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Garak waved his hand across the path of his communicator, trying to convey that he was being vague on purpose; Bashir asked if he was in pain.  Maybe _that_ was all the well-meaning young doctor needed to hear, to tear the thing out of him.  

But Garak chose not to lie to him, because nothing depended on it beyond Bashir’s disappointment.  He never lied for this; the price was too high for the product.

“The goal, Doctor, is for us to get to the neighboring planet _without_ your Chief O’Brien stopping us.  What is the first step backward?  Removing the device which relays our location.”

This sparked something in Bashir’s eyes, which Garak was happy to try and mirror.

“ _Your_ location,” Bashir told him.  “I could take mine off and then go myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

Garak reached forward, ripped the communicator from Bashir’s uniform, and threw it at the wall.


	4. Chapter 4

Dax gave her summary to Sisko when he returned to work the next morning.

“So far, Julian’s beamed down and they’re planning to talk to someone who’s seen the shuttles.”

“And,” Kira said, “Doctor Bashir isn’t allowed to say anything.  O’Brien’s commentary on that part was _golden_.” 

She returned from the replicator with a raktajino in each hand.  Dax eagerly accepted hers, while Sisko politely declined the other, allowing Kira to take a sip from it herself.

“They’re staying together in a guestroom on the surface,” Dax continued, “and Chief O’Brien is monitoring transmissions from the _Mekong_.”

“Is that all?” Sisko asked.  “I thought these reports were going to be more serious.”

“They _are,_ ” she countered, “but you know how Julian gets with Chief O’Brien.  With _Garak_.  With me.”

“With anybody,” Kira concluded.  

***

Bashir’s stunned gaze followed his communicator as it bounced from the wall and fell into a cloud of dust.  

“If you want my help, Doctor,” Garak said, “then you will get it.”

He shook the velvet free of his shoulders, balled it up, and tossed it so it landed beside Bashir on the bed.

“I wo--”

“Please, don’t speak.  That would rather complicate things,” he nodded toward the velvet and spun one hand forward to encourage Bashir to put it on. “I think it would be best if you didn’t make me remind you.”

Bashir quirked an eyebrow and dressed himself without further protest.  Garak was convinced this would play out as a very dramatic audio transcript.  He took Bashir’s arm and tugged him down the hallway, shutting the guestroom door behind them.

He made a point to avoid speaking to lifeforms they had met already, and gathered everything they needed to know through casual questions to strangers.  It took only two repetitions of ‘we were hoping to find the storyteller,’ for them to be given directions.

From what Bashir could see through his cloak, the storyteller seemed to spend the majority of their life in the fabled cave.  He considered it as a sort of ancient ampitheatre, with the covered cave pressed against a background of forest and faced by a steep cascade of rocks.  Depending on the size of the shuttles, he guessed they could land safely in the forest, concealed by trees and accessible only through the cave itself.  

Garak’s view was not much better; it was too bright here, with the flagstones reflecting the sunlight.

Neither noticed the storyteller until seeing a spark from somewhere inside the cave.  Bashir wished he had his tricorder.

However, the spark was stamped out before it could form a flame.  The storyteller had apparently noticed them.

Garak ducked into Bashir’s shoulder, speaking softly through the fabric.  

“Don’t speak, and _do not_ leave my sight.”

“Mmhmm,” Bashir mumbled this against the ridges on Garak’s neck, and suddenly felt a bit lightheaded.  He had experienced a dream along these lines, once, and living it now made him feel as though he had told all the details to Garak over lunch the following day.

“When is the next story?” Garak called out.

Together, they continued approaching the cave, with Garak’s hand drifting between Bashir’s shoulder and his waist.  When they arrived, they found only the cold flint on the cave floor.

***

Late that night, on his third round of pacing the runabout, O’Brien gave a fond sort of scoff to the stack of field rations on Bashir’s bunk.  His was the lower one, filled from its mattress to its ceiling with experimental chocolate bars.  O’Brien took one and unwrapped it as he sat down at the navigation terminal.  It was the communication terminal which beeped, as soon as he was comfortable.

“Just my luck,” he said to himself, sliding into the opposite seat.  The screen said he was requested directly.

Garak’s voice was relayed over the speaker:

_“The goal, Doctor, is for us to get to the neighboring planet without your Chief O’Brien stopping us...”_

“Computer,” O’Brien said, halting the transmission, “locate communicators for subjects Bashir and Garak.”

“On screen,” the computer directed O’Brien’s eyes to two pulsing dots on the monitor.  They were at least a hundred yards apart.

“Open a subspace channel to the station,” O’Brien ordered.  “Can you get this there in real-time?”

“Subspace communication from this distance will incur a two-minute processing delay.”

“That’s good enough for me.  Let Sisko know that when it gets there, would you?”

“Affirmative, time delay is noted.”

Exactly two minutes later, he watched Commander Sisko greet him on the viewscreen.  Dax was working at her station in the background, and Kira moved in and out of focus.

O’Brien watched the dots as one continued drifting from the other, sighed, and spoke.

“I’m rushing part of the transcript to you, Sir.  It sounds to me like they’re gonna try to leave the planet.  But, by the look of it, Garak’s on his way out already.”

He hoped he could remain more patient with this exchange than Sisko and Kira could.  Each had already rolled their eyes once, and Kira asked if the computer could try sending them predictive text, in case this was an emergency.   

“What?” demanded Sisko, “why?”

Behind him, Kira could be seen opening the transcript as it arrived.  The file played Bashir’s voice, then Garak’s:

_“Your location.  I could take mine off and then go myself.”_

_“Oh, I don’t think so.”_

Silence.  Two minutes.  Kira stepped up to the viewscreen.

“What does _that_ mean?” she tossed her hands then let them fall by her sides. “Doctor Bashir’s communicator is still in the guestroom!”

“It’s possible that he removed it, and then they left together,” Sisko’s voice was as calm as Kira’s was not.

“Or,” she offered, “Garak’s got him restrained while he flees the planet, and there’s no way Bashir can call for help.  He set some elaborate trap for us - planet without radio capability, random shuttle landings, a hell of a time delay, no _names or identities_ \- and we walked right into it.”

“That’s the other thing,” O’Brien said, “Garak’s talking about taking his communicator out altogether.”

Odo was already speaking when the message was received.

“The planet is uncharted, Major,” he said. “We can’t assume Garak knew anything about it before arriving.”

“Well then maybe I’m overestimating him,” Kira said, cringing at the thought, “but I think he’s pretty good at making things up as he goes along.  He’s just taking the opportunity we gave him to get away.”

Sisko held up his hand, and gestured to the viewscreen, where O’Brien was finally heard.

“Keep me informed, Chief.  And don’t let him leave.”

“Understood, Commander.”

***

So far, Garak was content to categorize the entire excursion as a vacation.  A pleasant change after several years on the station and an unwarranted hour on Cardassia which he was still trying his hardest to forget.  He was here, now, because he had accepted Sisko’s innocuous invitation to - how had the human phrased it? - ‘do Doctor Bashir a favor.’  It lacked danger but not company, something the subdued and out-of-practice operative was thankful for.  He knew, if he wanted to make things more exciting, he needed only to call for Chief O’Brien by name.

But he was not required to tell Bashir any of this, favor or not.

“As a rule,” Garak began, “I refuse to consider anything which is purely hypothetical.”

He thought this to be the most fallible lie he’d ever offered; Bashir’s constant breaths against his neck were enough to fuel hours of hypothetical drivel.  He knew better than to display this desperation.  When Bashir replied, Garak was almost thankful for the distraction.

“What about in strategizing?” he asked, in his softest whisper.

“Especially not in strategizing, my dear-”

Bashir did not mean to interrupt the phrase at this point, but enjoyed the accident too much to apologize.  Instead, he cleared his throat.

“Then what is our strategy?”

Years ago, Garak gave up on trying to approximate the human practice of whispering.  He found he could speak softly from the back of his throat, but it never sounded quite right; Bashir had once called it ‘sotto’ without elaboration.  Compared to the melody Bashir’s whisper conducted, Garak thought he may as well have been hissing.

“We maintain our disguises,” he attempted, before returning eagerly to the sotto, “and await either the storyteller, or a shuttle.  I will be joining you on the shuttle, and would prefer to do so without being tracked by my transponder.”

Bashir gave a single, surprised laugh then quickly quieted himself.

“You act like I need your assistance, Doctor,” Garak countered. “I’m sure the embroidery needle I brought along would help to rearrange some of the circuitry.  You know how soft the flesh is there.”

“Garak, I--”

“Shh, shh,” Garak guided Bashir again to the vulnerable scales along his neck.  He was sure no one was nearby to see them; this was only an indulgence.

Bashir found he was permitted to speak when this was finished, remaining under cover of velvet.

“I _cannot_ allow you to harm yourself.”

Garak made a regretful noise, which Bashir experienced more as vibration than as sound.  He pulled his head back, just briefly, hoping he could read Garak’s face as a definition.

“It’s quite alright, Doctor,” Garak assured him, returning Bashir’s face to his neck, “no attempts have been made.  I’ll admit to considering it once, fleetingly.  But I knew I wouldn’t enjoy my death as much as my exilers would.  And this is the first time I’ve thought about it since.”

Bashir took this as the truth because he did not want to think about any of the alternatives.  

“I can’t let you do that for me,” Bashir continued.  “This isn’t that important.”

Garak thought of several different things to say, and settled on none of them.  He truly had no intention of driving the conversation this way, especially in such pleasant company.  

He did not expect Bashir’s grip to be so tight around his wrist.  The young man apologized at once and withdrew.

“And I can’t let you go alone,” Garak replied.  “As you said yourself, this isn’t that important.”


	5. Chapter 5

O’Brien ordered himself a sweet coffee from the replicator, and resigned himself to another night awake.  His work on tracking the communicators had been almost entirely fruitless, as he reminded Sisko with each hourly report.  As far as he could tell, Bashir was still in the guest-house somewhere, wandering between the lobby and the private room.  Garak, meanwhile, was shown to be increasing the distance between them, moving in the direction of the shuttle landings.

“I won’t let him on a shuttle,” O’Brien said, to conclude his most recent correspondence with the station.

Now, he was tracking a shuttle as it began an orbit around Planet B.  He recorded this as ‘strike two’ to send to Sisko.  His suspicions pushed him harder to find a strike three, but he felt guilty about taking action without knowing for sure if Bashir was safe.

He scanned the shuttle and found it empty, aside from two unidentified lifeforms.  The bay of it was clear and primed for cargo.

***

Both of them heard the unmistakable sound of a ship entering the atmosphere.  Garak stumbled to the mouth of the cave to await the landing.  The ship was cloaked, but with Bashir’s help in dismissing the mere reflections of sunlight, Garak was able to track the shifts it created through the sky and branches.

Garak’s focus was then drawn to the figure of the storyteller, who emerged from a thick cluster of trees and waved one arm upward.

“Of course,” Garak told himself.  

“Hmm?” Bashir tilted his head.

Garak returned to a kneeling position, keeping one hand on Bashir’s shoulder for support he did not actually need.  He shepherded Bashir to a reclining position against the wall of the cave, and focused on quieting his breathing, making their camouflage effective until they could safely continue.  

“It appears our storyteller friend engages with the shuttles on purpose.  Our questions were, for one reason or another, more invasive than the interference.”

Garak only needed to feel one hot breath on his shoulder - the beginning of a question - to continue forming his argument.

“My guess is this is a sort of trade agreement.  Now, it may not be equitable for both parties, but it exists, and we are on the verge of tampering with it.  The people here are unable to use the elements taken away by their neighbors.  Is that exploitation?  I doubt it, since they cannot even begin to understand the substances they are losing.  And in return, stories.  Essentially, currency.”

“You expect me to tell Commander Sisko h--”

Garak held both Bashir’s shoulders, pulling him in closer until their foreheads nearly touched.

“ _Doctor_ ,” he scolded.  “I don’t expect you to tell Commander Sisko anything; he’ll have heard it all by the time we reach the station.”

“Even if that’s true,” Bashir replied, nodding toward the forest, “that’s not good enough.”

“No one asked you to do better, my de--”

“ _Garak!_ ”

“I’m not certain I can satiate your conscience, but please allow me to try.”

Bashir said nothing, and could be clearly seen glaring through his disguise.  Garak made a clicking sound with his tongue, and dug the infamous embroidery needle from its pocket on his wrist.  He curled Bashir’s fingers around this, and guided his hand toward a hemline on the velvet, promising such simple work would ‘clear his mind.’

“If a threat is not perceived,” Garak continued, “a threat does not exist.”

Garak took a second, smaller needle from the pouch and threaded it for himself.  He was eager to gauge whether Bashir learned better by watching or by doing.

“These people do not feel threatened by the shuttles, so they aren’t.”

“The storyteller, even if there is some sort of contract there, is being physically harmed by them.  That’s a bit more than a threat, in my book.”

“Are there ever times you don’t disclose details to your patients, Doctor?  Whether of treatment or affliction; it makes no difference.”

Bashir denied this immediately, but without enough conviction to keep Garak quiet.

“I suspect that’s untrue,” Garak replied.  “I assume there are times when you… _inflate_ the odds of one’s recovery.  Times you do not provide a list of every possible side effect.  Times you do not speak to the patient at all - perhaps it is a child who won’t understand.  What does omission mean, Doctor, in these instances?  Does it mean you are any less concerned?”  

Quietly, Bashir muttered ‘of course not’ and shook his head, then tugged at a loop of thread he had set too loosely - he had been trying not to touch the fabric with any more of his hand than necessary.  He would have to pull the needle through backwards, and begin the line again.  Garak watched him approvingly, and set his own needle down altogether, tucking it into the loop of twine around his wrist.  The doctor liked to learn by doing, and Garak was perfectly content to guide his hands.

“Here, on this planet, we are facing exactly the same circumstances.  Don’t you see?”

“But we’ve only been at it for a couple of days…”

“For our assumed identities,” he said, voice soft, “our entire lifetime.”  

Garak turned and waited for Bashir’s gaze to meet him, which took some encouragement.

“It would be unwise for us to inform them of their fate.  Especially here, now, alone.  Believe me, Doctor, I value nothing above devotion to one’s cause - and you’ve chosen a worthy one - but I can tell you from experience that being the only supporter of something - no matter how noble - is not safe for anyone.”

Bashir nodded solemnly.

“You’re saying we should give up.”

“No, no, no.  I’m stopping you from going too far, too soon.”

“Of course,” Bashir admitted, “we were only here for recon.”

“I’m glad you didn’t let your fantasies get the better of you,” Garak grinned, internally dismissing the fact this journey ticked nearly every one of his own ‘fantasy’ boxes.  But he always felt better, almost redeemed, when he learned he and Doctor Bashir had something in common, even if it was as trivial as their romantic tastes.

Bashir could sense this, and stepped hesitantly into the waters Garak was testing.

“Then I’d better get us back to the runabout,” his words were calm and slow, “so we can call for backup.”

He reached to set the needle into place against Garak’s wrist, and let his hand hover over Garak’s arm while he thought.  He locked the other hand around Garak’s shoulder, and pulled himself in closer.

“Ah, Chief O’Brien wanted me to remind you,” Bashir continued, setting his hand over Garak’s chest, “it’s very important you _stay still_ during transport, no matter how long it takes.”

He swallowed hard, surprised, when he felt Garak’s hand over his, pressing it hard into the path of the communicator.

“Is that so?”

Nervously, Bashir cleared his throat, resetting what would otherwise be a broken and lovesick voice.

“Bashir to _Mekong_ ,” he managed, while Garak watched him, “two to beam up from these coordinates.”

Bashir allowed himself to enjoy the immediate intimacy, while Garak was already looking forward to the prospect of them being beamed up together, atoms all intertwined against the vastness of space.

***

O’Brien had watched the shuttle land, and alerted Sisko immediately, but that was all.  The communicator remained still, unthreatening.  Bored with this, mentally branding Garak as cowardly and indecisive, O’Brien made a point of demonstrating that he was neither of these things.  He locked onto the weak signal from Bashir’s communicator, abandoned in the guestroom, and beamed it aboard.

It was just that - the communicator.

He opened a channel to Sisko, who answered once he was alone in his office.

“Bashir’s communicator was all I got from the guestroom,” he explained. “We’ve got to go with the theory he and Garak are together.”

After the prescribed silence, Sisko replied.

“Good work, Chief.  I saw your report on the shuttle… but no change in Garak’s location?  Is there a possibility he’s been injured?”

“I can’t tell, Sir.  Usually, Julian’s all over subdermal transponder readings, finding _tiny_ abnormalities in heart-rate or something to indicate injury.  So I’m sure, if something’s happened and they’re together, he’s taking good care of it.”

Sisko gave a thoughtful nod.

“Or did he remove it?”

“I don’t think so, Sir.  I’m still receiving transmissions, so there’s no sign it’s been tampered with.”

“What are our options?”

“I thought I’d wait for the shuttle to leave before locking onto him, Sir.  I know it’s a gamble, but I don’t want to pull them out of something important, in case any native lifeforms see them.  But if Garak makes a run for it, Sir, I’ll get him up here as soon as I can, and I’ll scour the planet myself to find Julian.”

The _Mekong_ ’s communication terminal beeped.  O’Brien acknowledged the interruption, and Sisko urged him to attend to it.

“ _Chief O’Brien wanted me to remind you…”_ Bashir’s voice said, over the recording.  The transcript had been playing as it was processed from the planet, but any calls for crewmembers were prioritized according to Federation default.

“They’re together,” he explained. “Let me beam them up and get back to you; it could take some time.”

It was Sisko who ended the transmission while O’Brien set to work.

After about twenty minutes of trying to lock onto Garak’s shifting signal and dismissing hundreds of notifications from the computer that told him not to attempt an unstable transport, he had them.

They arrived huddled together on the transporter.  Bashir dusted himself off and immediately tried to stand, while Garak was more lethargic, having become impossibly fond of the doctor’s touch.  Internally, he chastised himself for becoming so readily reliant on anything he could call pleasant, especially when it was artificial.  He stood and took several slow steps forward, staring at the ground as he went.

“Thanks, Chief,” Bashir said, rushing to the science terminal and igniting it.

“I take it you’re both alright,” offered O’Brien. “So what’s the verdict?”

“We’ll have to get that from the Federation.  Or from Sisko, at least.”

O’Brien was hoping this day of work would amount to something more exciting than chaperoning Bashir and Garak’s holiday.  He made a mental note to curse his luck later.

“I can get you a channel for that,” he explained, “but there’s a bit of a delay.”

O’Brien opened a channel to the station, and found Sisko sitting at an ops console with the rest of his officers standing on either side.

“Commander,” O’Brien said, “I’m setting return coordinates now.  Here’s Julian.”

“It’s nice to see you, Doctor Bashir,” Sisko said, after the two minutes of silence had already made Bashir sufficiently uncomfortable. “What do you have for me?”

“We can do further tests to see what it is the shuttles are taking,” Bashir said, “but it seems to be a trade agreement.  In exchange for raw materials they can’t use, they’re getting stories they _can._ ”

“Spoken word seems to be their currency,” Garak said, from his post behind Bashir.  

“Mister Garak,” Sisko nodded to the screen, and turned his head just in time to watch Kira roll her eyes.

“It marks a clear divide in castes,” Garak continued, fueled by this resentment, “there are some members of this society who do not speak at all.”

“That’s very insightful for two days of work,” Sisko replied, while Kira crossed her arms.

“I’d call it a week,” O’Brien said sarcastically.  But Bashir immediately agreed, noting the time difference and how strange he felt moving in this new pace aboard the runabout.  

“Our best theory has Planet A interfering on behalf of the Dominion” Kira said, eager to catch Garak outside the bounds of his scheme.  She was, of course, convinced he _was_ planning some sort of escape, but still would have been shocked if he freely admitted it.

“A distinct possibility,” Garak stepped forward and took Bashir’s shoulders softly in both hands.  “Perhaps a team with more _experience_ might uncover clues about their origins.”

It was Odo who accepted this challenge with a nod, promising to practice a Cardassian-derivative form in time for them to find out.  He said he could already recreate the lavender glow, and Kira had to stop herself from smiling at him.

“It seems we’ve arrived in the eye of the storm, then,” Sisko concluded.

Garak acknowledged the gap signaled by the onboard translator, while it dug through its archives for a Cardassian equivalent of the phrase.  After a moment, he was presented with something about the outward peace seen in trials during the lead up to a coup.  A distraction, a false sense of safety, a mirrored image of working order.  

He agreed the planet was a place to revisit with a more adequate team  

“I reckon you’ll have the rest of the transcripts by the time we get home, Commander,” O’Brien studied the readout from his screen. “Now that Garak’s communicator is closer, we’re able to pick them up more quickly.”

“Very good, Chief.  I’ll schedule a briefing for tomorrow at 1400 hours, so we all have time to look them over.  Safe travels, _Mekong_.  Sisko out.”

Bashir spun in his chair, and looked up at Garak.

“I think we’d better get that implant out,” he said.  Garak followed him to the casualty kit, which was waiting beside the transporter pad.  Removing it was a simple task, and he brought it to O’Brien in a glass box several minutes later.  Garak was left with an unnecessary strip of bandage, which Bashir was adept and gentle in applying.  

“I could use some sleep,” Bashir said, setting the box down at O’Brien’s station.  “Sorry, Chief.  Unless you need me, that is.”

“Please,” said O’Brien.  He continued not out of politeness, but discomfort, “that top bunk is all yours if you want it, Garak.”

“How very kind of you, but I’d prefer--”

“Of _course_ ,” Bashir said, pleased with his fluency of other cultures, “I’d be happy to switch with you.”

Garak listened as the doctor reconstructed a crumbly, ancient artifact of a lie he’d told regarding a universal Cardassian fear of heights.  

“No, Doctor, I’d r--”

Then a more recent one, about how Cardassians preferred to sleep alongside some sort of heat source.  Fireplaces were common fixtures in bedrooms, after all.

“There’s an option to extend the lower bunk,” Bashir explained, “and I can have the lights dimmed.  The curtain shuts, as well, if--”

O’Brien suddenly found himself begging the computer to play Aldebaran concert recordings.

“I don’t think I would enjoy that at all, Doctor, despite your company,” Garak continued, voice just beneath the music.  While he appreciated Bashir’s selfless attempts to make the space darker and warmer, the same gestures would also make it smaller.  “I’m sure I can keep myself occupied for the rest of the journey.”

“Three and a half hours,” O’Brien recited, out of habit.  He felt bad for reminding himself.

Bashir shrugged free of the velvet, and looked down as Garak stooped eagerly to collect it from the floor.  As Bashir watched him stand, he made a point to avoid eye contact.  In truth, he was more hungry than tired.  Hungry for a full replicated meal, sure, but also for more of Garak’s touch.  He found Garak’s skin to be smooth and inviting, and his scent like cinnamon kept in a copper pot.  Bashir was, at the same time, afraid of being in Garak’s company unless they were truly alone - something he thought was attractively ironic if Garak was indeed as dangerous as most of the station regarded him.  He was afraid of admitting any of his feelings to anyone but Garak, as talking usually came easy to him but restraint did not.

Maybe, he thought, it was too late to start practicing lies like this.  He was sure Garak saw through it, even as he drew the curtain.  


	6. Chapter 6

O’Brien rushed from the runabout the moment docking was complete.  Garak looked in both directions, to be sure he was gone, before peeling back the bed curtain and finding Bashir completely awake.  He took Bashir’s hand, running his thumb tenderly over the back of it.  The velvet robe was draped over his folded arm, and he had spent the entire journey modifying it with his lavender thread.

“I was hoping to continue taking advantage of our time together, Doctor,” Garak helped him to stand up.  “You offer unrivaled company.”

Originally, Bashir had planned on yawning and, at most, shaking Garak’s hand before excusing himself to spend an actual night in his own bed.  He was thinking about his exit since O’Brien caught sight of them on the runabout transporter pad, and it took him several seconds of silence to reverse it.  Garak, however, did not feel uncomfortable or inconvenienced as a result; he was perfectly happy to follow Bashir’s gaze down to the floor and tentatively up again, keeping their hands pressed flat together.

“Ah,” managed Bashir at last. “Your quarters or mine?”

Garak’s.  Bashir was led there by the arm.

They entered, and Garak immediately called for the computer to lower the temperature.  He almost felt guilty assigning this action to the doctor’s comfort, when in truth Garak only kept the room tolerably warm while he was not in it.  It was the first thing he adjusted whenever he returned from work, always afraid of becoming too comfortable himself.  He could recall dozens of enigma tales about the fates of complacent spies, and the implant had already tempted him into close territory.  However, for each one of the enigma tales, a hundred human romance novels existed to disguise the lie he’d given as both necessary and gallant.

Bashir enjoyed stories like that, and, based on the few he had given Garak to read, they seemed to influence him greatly.  As Garak considered this, Bashir chose to sit on one end of the sofa, rather than alone behind the desk or at the dining table.

Garak took the seat beside him.

“Would you mind if I adjusted the lighting?” Garak asked.

“Please,” Bashir held one hand forward, invitingly.  He found, then, the most surprising thing Garak could do was exactly the thing Bashir had hoped for in the first place.  

He took Bashir’s hand, only for a moment, trying to fold their fingers together in typical human fashion.  

Gradually, the light dimmed, sending both of their hearts into a race.  Bashir always felt this way in dark rooms, trying to anticipate the unknown.  Garak, meanwhile, was pleased to finally see his partner properly.  Bashir’s face glowed, and Garak admired the soft edges.  

“I would say that went brilliantly,” Garak ventured.  “Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?”

Bashir squinted to see Garak’s eyes in the darkness, and only nodded because he knew this would be seen clearly.  For a moment, he thought about inviting Garak to call him ‘Julian,’ but what he knew about Cardassian culture dismissed this as utterly unromantic.  Titles carried respect, which led the way to loyalty, and he thought this was essentially the same as love.  Maybe Garak wasn’t so hard to understand after all.

“Brilliantly,” Bashir concluded.

Garak stood, satisfied with this answer, and shuffled to the dresser which housed his clothing.  From the top drawer, he removed something shiny and sheer white, and set the velvet robe down in its former place.  

“I wanted to make it clear how sorry I am for subjecting you to so many unpleasant sensations.  Perhaps I can make amends?”

He returned to his seat and drew the shimmery fabric gently around Bashir’s shoulders.  When Garak reached down toward Bashir’s waist, with the intention of fastening a tie, he guessed it was a robe.

“I think you’ll find this much less restrictive than velvet,” Garak explained.  “I used to wear it to bed, but it’s been too cold since… well, since having the implant removed.  It would seem I owe it to you; a requirement.”

“Sorry?”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Doctor?”

Before Starfleet was assigned to the station, Garak had never seen a human being.  He was careful in acquiring the personnel records and studying them, only learning English because that was the language the files arrived in, and it was still difficult to get Federation approval on translations to Cardassian, especially with Garak’s cloudy history.  He felt like a child, scrolling between the pictures and symbols, forcing himself to understand.  It was tedious, until he arrived at the image of Doctor Bashir, looking so soft and genuine against his stark Academy uniform; he had graduated so recently, the file had not yet received an updated identification image.  With encouragement from the figure’s easy smile, he learned the rest of the eerily symmetrical English alphabet.  

The face in the graduation picture looked satisfied without being severe, so unlike the sea of faces Garak had grown up in.  He wondered if the human could command such beauty beyond the one-dimensional image.  When they met in person, he found Bashir to be as soft as he expected, but also stammering, blushing, and altogether more endearing.

That was the face Garak saw now.  

To fully recapture Bashir’s attention, Garak found he had to take a few conversational steps backward.  He smoothed the satin fabric of the robe’s belt between his fingers.

“I’m sure this will feel as rich against human skin as it does mine,” Garak moved to take Bashir’s hand, stroking his fingers to lend legitimacy to this statement.  

Slowly, Bashir blinked.  Once, twice.  Garak tried to read this, but was interrupted.  

Bashir shifted so that he was kneeling over Garak, forcing his shoulders against the sofa under the added weight.  Garak’s hands settled over the curved bones at Bashir’s hips.

“ _Doctor_ ,” Garak was surprised, and hoped his voice was heard as anything but admonishing.  This was something he wished he could whisper.

Bashir leaned in, unaffected, watching Garak’s eyes for disapproval.  None was given, so he pressed their foreheads together, then tilted his chin down so their lips could meet.  

He meant to pull away quickly after, to gain some verbal confirmation of Garak’s opinion.  But instead, Garak’s hand moved to the back of his head, keeping him in place.  Together, their lips parted, and Bashir felt the serrated tongue twisting over his own; Garak was sure he’d read this in every novel Bashir exchanged with him.  As far as Garak understood it, the ritual was accomplished, and he allowed them to separate.

“I’m sure your skin would feel -” Bashir began, between breaths, “how did you put it? - _rich_ , against mine.”

“I may have mixed up my words,” Garak said, knowing perfectly well he did not.  Bashir was often subject to a peculiar human condition which made him hear what he wanted to hear.  Garak couldn’t imagine forcing so much suffering on any Cardassian, but he was happy to play one side of it as a game.  

Even after several years of knowing each other, Garak found he could still surprise Bashir twice in the same breath.

“But I do believe you’re correct, Doctor,’ he concluded, interlocking their gazes.

“You wanted to take advantage of our time together,” Bashir asked, tentatively.

“And _you_ like to learn through experience.”

“Garak, are y--?”

“Shh,” Garak’s voice was gentle, encouraging.  Everything Bashir’s picture taught him to be, “There’s no need to speak now, Doctor.  I’m sure we understand each other perfectly.”

He nearly shivered at the contrasting warmth of Bashir’s fingers, as they dove beneath his collar and drummed once over the scales on his shoulders.  Then, Bashir reached forward, drawing his fingers down as far as he could reach.  He was hoping to find a closure to undo - a set of buttons, a cleverly hidden zipper, some elaborate calligraphic Cardassian binding - but he found none.  What more could he expect from a mysterious man who made his own clothes.  Certainly not simplicity.

Bashir’s fingertips grazed the beginning of an especially soft patch of skin, nestled under Garak’s ribs and hidden behind the thickest fabric of his tunic.  Bashir had asked about this area once, whether it was more sensitive or significant, under the pretense of overhauling the station’s Cardassian medical records.  Garak said he would rather not discuss it over their lunch.

He had come back the next day with a carefully constructed story and some artificial embarrassment for good measure.  It was capable of carrying eggs, but had not been in use by Cardassian males since the shift in power; males to the decidedly unsafe military, females to the glorified congress.  ‘To have children is to serve the state,’ Garak had said.  Nearly every promise he made on behalf of the state was of goods he could not deliver; this was a rare deviation.  He insisted Gul Dukat had carried three of his own children prior to the occupation, and Bashir only needed to ask him for confirmation.  Instead, Bashir mumbled something about his own body, thanked Garak for sharing something so apparently personal, and added notes about the pouch’s supposed purpose to his medical database.  

Really, it was formerly muscular, like the equivalent area on Bashir’s body.  But his time on the station allowed the muscle to be gradually displaced by kanar and spice pudding.  Garak expected the same would happen to the young doctor soon enough.

That was truth.  This was meant to be fantasy.  

“Mmm,” Garak hummed and shut his eyes.  Bashir spread his fingers over the soft skin, delighted with the texture and with the satisfied face Garak gave him.  

Garak always had a rocky relationship with pleasure.  He felt like a riding hound whose keeper had stepped on his paw.  There was a rushed flood of attention, which Garak understood not as an apology for causing the pain, but as praise for enduring it.  Fortunately, Bashir was always more forward with his intentions, as if pressing kisses to his hound’s wounded paw instead.

Bashir leaned in, letting his lips brush against the ridges on Garak’s neck, breathing slowly and warmly over them.   Garak’s reflex was to tighten his hold on Bashir’s hip.  

He dragged his hands upward, past padded ribs and pectoral scales, until they were free of the fabric.  Garak opened his eyes now, to watch him.

“Restrictive,” Bashir muttered.

Garak laughed once to agree.  He finally moved his fingers, only to undo the tie on Bashir’s new robe.

“I’d be happy to alter this for you, Doctor.  You were so helpful in doing mine.”

“Right, I’d… er…”

He shuffled backward, coughed once uncomfortably, and returned to his seat against the armrest.

“There’s no need for you to leave,” Garak assured him. “You’ve misunderstood me again.”

“Well, it’s just,” Bashir managed, “you didn’t sound so interested, there, and I thought I’d better stop myself from going too far, too soon.”

Garak continued smiling, and curled his fingers tightly around the satin belt.  This fear had always occupied him, since the first time he and Bashir met.  Now, to counteract the weight of all the times he’d been too obvious, appeared too desperate, ached too fiercely for Bashir’s touch, he forced himself back into mystery.  But this was a genre both of them favored, and no effects of Garak’s love would be lost.  Humans and Cardassians shared a desire for balance in relationships, for equal and almost opposite contributions.  It would not serve either of them if they were both overbearing at once.  Garak could play any role that was required of him.

“Stay and tell me all about yourself,” Garak soothed.  There was a pin cushion on the table beside the armrest, which he encouraged Bashir to pass to him so he could begin work on the robe.

“I should be good at that.”

“One of your best skills, I’m sure.  And then, once this is pinned, you can try it on for me; we’ll see how well I’ve committed your measurements to memory.”

Garak swiped his tongue over the head of a pin before setting it between his teeth.  The doctor watched, intrigued.

“And we can keep it here,” Bashir ventured, voice inverting slightly, “for times I - _we_ \- let our fantasies get the better of us.”

“What a _beautiful_ and optimistic mind you have, Doctor.  I’m so happy to have made a home in it.”


End file.
